


Two Sides of the Same Tape

by astridianmayfly



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A crossover between canon and au, Angst with a Happy Ending, Archivist Jonathan Sims, Archivist Sasha James, Canon but with a twist, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Pining, Dimension Travel, Fluff and Angst, In which we get to witness Archivist Sasha interact with the team we know and love, Multi, Parallel Universes, Set at the beginning of s2, Sort Of, Time Travel Fix-It, Two Archivists for the price of one!!!, a little twist on the time travel and archivist sasha aus we all know and love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astridianmayfly/pseuds/astridianmayfly
Summary: Side A: Jonathan Sims has just begun to check his tea for arsenic. Archival assistants have taken to sliding follow-up reports under the crack in the door, which is somehow locked tighter than it has ever been. There is a jar of ashes on his desk and always a tape recorder in hand, rolling even when he's not completely sure if he turned it on.Side B: The world is forever changed. So is The Archivist, burdened with Knowing too much and understanding too little. But she remembers when she was Sasha James, who lost and loved all she had. There's only one way to turn the world back, and she hopes to God that her way doesn't end up destroying the space-time continuum.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 33
Kudos: 129





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys like this story!

The Archivist turns the well-worn birthday card over in her hand, absentmindedly picking at the weathered corner. She cannot bear to read its contents, not now, but she Knows what is inside. She has learned every letter, every aspect: The hole where the pen was pressed too strongly, the section where the words float feather-light, what was written tiny, but bold. Eyes closed, she traces imprints that almost say  _ I love you. _

This, Sasha feels, is a  _ very much adequate _ anchor. 

She stands at the foot of her roots, insatiable curiosity already getting the better of her. From an outside perspective, the institute is as foreboding as she remembers it. She half-expects to see the inky tentacles of The End leading to a cooling body, but she thankfully she does not find herself living through the eyes of one Oliver Banks. The building is just as it has always been: Suspiciously tall. Approaching its bicentennial. 

Through the Eyes of some grandpa in the Underground, she had read a Daily Mail headline. Nonsense, even in this timeline, but now she has a grasp of exactly  _ when _ she is. September 2016 is a year later than she’d intended to arrive, but she’ll have to make it work. 

She locates a particular window, higher up, where a dark figure hurries along the threshold. It is long past 5 o’ clock, so who would--?

\--The figure pauses. Perfectly silhouetted, like the pupil of the circular-shaped glass. 

_ Shit. _ Has she been spotted?

No, not like that... They do not share eye contact...

... just something much, much greater.

With notably more trepidation, the person continues on their route. To assume they share her paranoia may be projection. She imagines them shrugging their shoulders, brushing off the encounter. Doubtful, though. She Knows they pace the corridors with narrow, shifting eyes, a tape recorder in hand.

Sasha heads back the way she came. She is sick of watching the things that stare back.

***

Head Archivist Jonathan Sims has run himself through his checklist multiple times: water, food, torches, survival stuff. It seems antithetical to lay out his supplies for some type of  _ expedition  _ on his mahogany desk, but it’ll have to do. 

He wants--no, needs-- to know. Who-- _or what_ \-- lurks in the Institute’s depths.

The trapdoor is closed, innocently. It would be oh-so-easy to assume that it is just another feature of this ancient London institute. It would be so easy. 

The truth, that’s a bit harder. It is something that Jon can no longer ignore, now that he has admitted to feigning ignorance: The smell of carbon dioxide lingering behind the atmosphere of old books. A smear that Jon assumes to be a crushed worm carcass on the hatch. To the left, a dent in the floor from when Martin flung the trapdoor open with wild abandon, yelling about the dead woman under the archives. 

He lifts the hatch. The trapdoor gives way with an ominous creak. 

_ Here goes everything.  _

He descends. If it feels like someone is watching him, well.

That’s nothing new.


	2. Side A: The Devil You Know, The Devil You Don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she finally got her hands on those tapes, Sasha had listened and rewound and relistened to the parts where she heard a smirk in the real statement-giver’s dulcet tone. She pressed play so many times that the finger that, one day, she would attempt to remove, returned red, raw. When she thinks about him, she catches a faint scent of cigarette smoke. Sees a flash of a golden glasses chain. 
> 
> And that is all.

There is a lot that hurts to think about. 

This cafe, for one. She feels like she’s been here. In a way, she has: through the statement of a forgotten friend. Before that someone was stolen and stranger. Now, her mind replaces a face she can’t remember with an Aryan imposter. Blond hair and blue eyes and blurry at edges, haphazardly pasted into her memory like an out-of-place piece in a collage. A person lost to delusion and carelessly torn out of reality.

Its smile was just a bit too wide and Sasha remembers its glasses, with too-sharp corners -- or is that a sentiment tinged with hindsight? Tainted with the curse of knowledge? 

Sasha doesn’t know. Sasha can’t Know.

When she finally got her hands on  _ those _ tapes, Sasha had listened and rewound and relistened to the parts where she heard a smirk in the real statement-giver’s dulcet tone. She pressed play so many times that the finger that, one day, she would attempt to remove, returned red, raw. When she thinks about him, she catches a faint scent of cigarette smoke. Sees a flash of a golden glasses chain. 

And that is all. 

_ I’m  _ fine,  _ Sasha, it’s just a scratch! Can we begin? _

And another thing: 

The Beholding is weaker here. 

Sasha isn’t the recipient of Wikipedia-level streams of knowledge when she questions any trivial aspect of her being. It could be because she’s crossed over or just weak after everything. 

Or maybe the power was reserved for  _ this _ universe’s Archivist. 

Still. Those theories lent no consideration to the fact that The Beholding tended to not provide any sort of information that might be its undoing. 

_ Good,  _ thinks the spiteful side of Sasha. Practically, she knows that omniscience would be useful in a foreign universe. But she  _ misses _ those days-- _ these days-- _ before she opened the door. When she couldn’t flay a being alive with her words, when she couldn’t Know everything. Before, well…. 

….Before it all went wrong. 

_ Ceaseless Watcher…. _

She sits and waits. 

****

“Jon!”

“--Agh-- Martin?”

Jon almost falls off of the ladder. An extreme reaction? Perhaps. In Jon’s defense, this was an archive where just one month prior, an innocent exterior wall gave way to a bloodthirsty parasite. Yes--the worm queen and the ongoing murder investigation were arguably enough to make anyone jumpy. 

Martin, ever the apologist, jumps to the rescue. “Oh, God, sorry Jon, I didn’t mean to startle you--”

“--It’s  _ fine _ , Martin.” Jon glowers down at Martin’s hands, still clutching the legs of the teetering ladder. 

Thankfully, Jon doesn’t have to yell. Under Jon’s gaze, Martin peels his fingers away and steps back to set his wits about him. He scratches the back of his head, fingers drawing through distracting hair that reminds Jon of gossamer, of transient fog.  _ A nervous gesture,  _ Jon remembers. He’d done it right after he’d escaped his apartment. As Jon took his statement.

“It’s been a while--How’ve you been?”

A month, to be exact. Too long away from this--this-- epicenter. Martin had  _ insisted.  _

Jon hums. “Apart from the nightmares, you mean? Alright, I suppose.” He turns his attention back to the top-shelf statement box.  _ The Milbank prison one had to be in here somewhere... _

Martin gives a wry little laugh. “That seems about right.” 

Jon  _ needs _ to find that statement. There is someone lurking in those tunnels--he knows it-- they were positively  _ lived in  _ when he was there. Gertrude’s killer, perhaps? Could it be Gerard Keay? He was reported dead, but….

...how legitimate were the statement follow-ups, anyways? If Jon truly, properly, gave the matter consideration, any of his colleagues could be a likely murderer or accomplice. Why would anyone give him  _ any  _ information that could lead to their own conviction? He would have to check back on  _ who _ exactly delivered the report on Gerard’s death, but did it really even matter? The facts were that  _ someone was down there _ , and someone didn’t want him to know about it. 

After thorough and admittedly painstaking research through statements, he  _ had  _ eventually found sufficient evidence on Prentiss. But the tapes…. they were the key. By Martin’s account, they were ritualistically stacked around her corpse. That had to mean something, right? He needs to see about getting his hands on evidence. It might not even be that hard: Regarding Institute matters, the police seemed more--

“Er, Jon?”

Jon hadn’t even noticed that Martin was still there. He schools his face into a professional facade and makes his voice managerial. “Martin, have you followed up on the Jennifer Ling statement? It’s another that wouldn’t take to laptop.”

Martin colors a bit at this. “No, but--”

Jon continues. “I’ll sic Sasha on it. She prefers the, how does she say? Statements with a ‘stranger nature.’”

Martin gives him a smile that can only be described as... considerate? Was that pity? “She seems to be a bit under the weather, after...everything. I can handle it.” 

_ 1822, no, that was too early…  _ “Right then. Best be getting to it.” 

“Sure, Jon. Left something on your desk for you, when you get the chance.” 

It’s only after another minute on the ladder that Martin’s words register.

Jon’s gaze snaps up from the box. “Oh, I--” 

_ I wanted to ask: How are you, Martin? _

But Martin is gone.

*** 

It’s like this. 

Not a shimmering or fading or pop into existence, but one minute there is no one there and the next instant someone who is a no one  _ is _ . 

Michael’s edges waver like heat bending light. Michael laughs like she is hearing him over the telephone.

“....The  _ real _ Sasha James. Across every universe, you are always a favorite.”

Sasha is not petty enough to scowl. Just gives Michael a half-moon grin, only slightly sardonic. “Not ‘The Archivist,’ then? Are we on a first-name basis?”

Michael gives that wrong little laugh again. Like an echo in a cave. “You aren’t The Archivist  _ here _ , though.”

There is a coffee, now, that Sasha suddenly has in her hand. She decides to let it slide. “Thank you for the brilliant segue! Right. I would like you to tell me  _ who _ , then. Here. Do--” She sighs. “--Is it someone that I know?”

Micheal folds his hands. Hands with the joints that fold and fold and fold-- “An Archivist who can’t use her words?”

“ **_Who is The Archivist of this universe_ ** _?” _

Michael laughs. “Someone you can’t know.”

Sasha  _ knew  _ he came to be his oppositional self.  _ No  _ useful information he was willing to share. 

Classic.

“We’ve had so many discussions about whos and whats and  _ knowings _ , Archivist. All that knowledge….and you never learn. It’s much better that you embrace it.”

“Embrace  _ what?” _

A wicked grin. “Hypotheticals! Remember?”

****

When Jon returns to his desk, there is a jar of ashes. Human ones. 

Well, sort of. Close enough. 

He sits down at his chair. He stares--the jar is right there. Front and center. Jon picks up a pen (he despises pencils) and pushes it every so slightly to the right corner of the tabletop. 

That is all that sits on the edges of his desk, besides his tape recorder and the jar of pens on the other side. 

Tim has that one picture of him and Sasha at New Year’s propped up at his cubicle. In it, the pair grins drunkenly at the camera, covered in glitter and winestains. Martin has some muted pictures from childhood. A vintage vibe offset by an assortment of colorful stickers. 

Sasha cleared her desk after Prentiss. Jon strains to remember what was on it beforehand. He can’t, but there must’ve been something she was stuffing into her desk drawers. 

Jon has paper as a sole adornment. It is not particularly practical, nor easy on the eyes. Peculiarly, he finds himself wishing that the mason jar was a picture frame. That’s ludicrous, though. He doesn’t think he could find a picture to fill it. 

Jon jumps at the sharp knock at his door. He bites back a decidedly unprofessional curse. “Come in!”

Sasha enters his office with a blinding smile. “May I trouble you for your coffee order?” Her heels echo, even across the dust-eaten carpet. 

Jon sighs wearily. “No thank you. Despite popular opinion, I  _ do _ actually sleep.”

Sasha’s grin grows impossibly wider. “Famous last words!” 

Jon gives her a halfhearted smile as his only response. “Was there anything else?” 

“No, just a 4 pm caffeine run. What’s the new desk accessory?” 

Jon practically snorts, paying the offending jar a glance. “Would you believe me if I said it was Miss Prentiss herself?”

Sasha doesn’t relinquish her impossible smile, but her eyes darken slightly. “How?”

“Courtesy of Martin, if you can believe.”

She lets out a laugh. It is surprisingly loud. “Martin Blackwood!” She croons. “Full of surprises, that man!” 

“I suppose. Will you return to the Institute? After coffee?”

She blinks. Somehow it looks awkward on her. 

“No,” she says slowly, “no, I don’t think that I will.”

“Have a good night then, Sasha.”

“Take it easy, Boss. You look tired.” 

Jon doesn’t hear her leave. Her departure was as soundless as Martin’s. 

He resumes staring at the jar of ashes. It’s probably just dirt. 

It was definitely dirt. _Ashes?_ How could he have been so stupid to just take it at face value? Martin had been acting out of appeasement. Giving him little crumbs. Red Herrings here and there so he would avoid the real trail. Jon wonders if Elias told his assistants of Jon’s stealing of his keys. 

Well, the  _ deterring  _ wasn’t going to work on him. There is an awful idea that has begun to fester and rot in his brain, eating and dirty. A mental slideshow of each of his colleagues holding a smoking gun in that cobweb-laden labyrinth. Feeling indifferent as the case growing cold and the corpse growing colder and The Archivist was another Magnus Institute mystery. A myth that died alone. And worse--unknown. 

That sort of person... would surely strike again.

But he still places the jar in his bottom drawer. Just in case. 

It really  _ was _ a dreadful desk accessory. Martin’s retro aesthetic would likely agree. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/3 APs completely babeey let's get it!! means i might update more frequently
> 
> I can't stop thinking about taylor swift's soon you'll get better in the context of quarantine and it just makes me so uneasy. "this won't go back to normal--if it ever was." It just makes me lasjdflajsdlfjasdlkjasd. I took so much for granted before and I want it all back. I honestly just feel like I've aged a million years in months and we're all too young to feel this old. ofc y'all relate. anyways! hope you liked it.


	3. Side B: Evanesce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael is not coming back. It is in Elias’s eyes, boring into hers.
> 
> Daring her to turn him down. 
> 
> “You are qualified.”
> 
> His smile is full of tombstone teeth. She is chilled to the bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no specific content warnings except general unsettling-ness of magnus

It is Sasha James’s thirty-fourth day working for the world’s most revered paranormal research facility when she discovers that her mug has vanished. 

Sasha, while sharp, is  _ that _ type: prone to chronically misplacing things. The comfortable weight of a phone in hand isn’t so assuring when it has disappeared into thin air on the tube. Those times she paces her flat in search of the pair of glasses already perched on her forehead. Yeah, she has attention issues. Not exactly a revelation.

It’s not so suspicious, then, when the coffee is just... _ gone.  _ She’s obviously being dumb again. 

It is pretty weird, though, when, after vocalizing the sheer  _ weirdness  _ of its inexplicable vanishing, Lily retrieves Sasha’s mug from the break room next to the coffeemaker  _ in there _ , laughing a little. “ _ Very _ smooth.” 

Sasha laughs half-heartedly. 

She knows for a fact that she hasn’t been in there once since Rosie pointed it out to her on her first day-- in fact, the breakroom is a place she’s vehemently avoided. She saw several sleazy-looking researchers guffawing within and made the decision to steer clear. 

And then the following day: “Hey, er, I found your mug in the break room again? I just brought it back for you--seemed like you didn’t like it being in there…?”

Sasha just stares at the offending ceramic.  _ The hell? _

So it is the third occasion that her cuppa just isn’t  _ there _ , all of a sudden, that she makes the journey into the break room herself-- loud millennial coworkers be damned.

When she enters, someone’s on the couch and typing furiously on their phone. Besides their occasional frustrated huff, that’s about it for noise-- She is pleasantly surprised. 

And-- _ there!  _ That lavender mug practically gleams in its usual runaway spot. Innocently perched next to the coffee machine. Is someone trying to get her attention (cough a Magnus misogynist cough)? If so, who? Although she’s on friendly terms with most of the storage crew by now, their relationship isn’t anything more than acquaintances or coworkers. 

When she snatches it up, she inspects the mug--finding a clue might require Sherlockian deduction. Her sweep of the cup, its interior, and the surrounding area don’t reveal any incriminating evidence, unfortunately. Lifting the mug reveals no circle of condensation, so it’s not like someone was accidentally using it or somet--

“Excuse me? Are you using the machine?”

Sasha prides herself at not jumping in shock. She does whirl around, though, only to come face-to-face with one of the tallest guys she’s ever seen in her life. He has small glasses and longish blonde hair and an easy, half-moon smile. 

“Oh! Sorry, my bad!” She steps out of the way. 

“No problem--just checking!” He shuffles towards the coffeemaker, as if afraid of the length of his gait. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before?”

Sasha is no brooding academic, and offers him a smile. “You wouldn’t’ve... I’m new! And didn’t spend much time in here until whoever’s been stealing my mug prompted me to solve the ‘Curious Case of the Missing Cup’ or whatever. Sorry, uh, It’s Sasha James,” she supplies.

While he fills his cup, he turns to her, brow furrowed rather mischievously. “Oh, well, nice to meet you, Sasha! I’m Michael Shelley. An Archival Assistant, here. I’d shake your hand, but I’d probably scald you.”

Sasha realizes that he is referencing his boiling cup of coffee. “Well....nice to meet you too!” She pauses. “So, er, what’s it like in the Archives?”

The Archives were the so-called “real deal” at the Institute. After her first, er,  _ encounter,  _ with a particularly malicious succulent in Artefact Storage, her colleagues made sure to inform her that this was the  _ least _ of it. “I mean… we see creepy shit. A lot. Early handling of Leitners? BAM! Instant or slow deaths, in some cases. Horrible, really horrible. But like,  _ fuck. _ The Archives…  _ the Archives _ have rows and rows and rows of all the spookiest shit that’s ever happened  _ ever  _ and everyone who works there is reclusive with trust issues. Gertrude Robinson, the Head Archivist, is the most hardass grandma you will ever lay witness to… if looks could kill? Oh, she  _ so _ could.”

Sasha was and is, understandably, intrigued. The archives seem like the sort of horrifying-yet-macably-entertaining workplace melodrama you could make a reality show out of! She would call Lifetime herself with the pitch, but she doesn’t think Elias would approve. A shame--A true Kris Jenner, he is. 

Michael laughs. “Overrated, honestly. Not much creepier than any other sort of the practical research fields, here.”

Sasha makes a face. “Tell me about it! I’m in Artefact Storage, and just…. _ ugh _ . I’ve been here… about a month? And if I was offered another position, I assure you I would transfer in a  _ heartbeat _ . It really is quite creepy.”

“Oh?” Micheal stirs his coffee. “Do tell.”

****

Sasha’s first interaction with Gertrude Robinson is a run-in-- both figuratively and literally. She finds herself in the Archives, delivering some misfiled statements (literally rolled into some cursed flute). As the two women collide around a “blind curve” in the tall, winding shelves, Sasha curses herself.  _ Really, Sasha? You pick the old woman to tabletop? _

But Gertrude doesn’t so much as flinch. Sasha trips over apologies while Gertrude holds her steely-eyed gaze. She gives Sasha a curt nod and waits for her to pass. 

Sasha turns the corner and there is Michael, waving at her in the friendliest manner. There is something about him that shines like a beacon in these dark, dark archives. And after meeting the infamous Battleaxe Robinson, there is something like pity that pools in Sasha’s gut at this gesture of naivete. 

She waves back, and it does nothing to quell her nausea. 

****

It is Sasha James’s sixty-fourth day since noting the disappearance of Michael Shelley that she is dragged from the shadows of Artefact Storage to the boss’s office. It is well-lit, and Sasha feels strangely disorientated as a hand she does not want touching her back guides her to a seat. 

Elias is not one for beating around the bush. 

“Head Archivist? But--”

“-- But what of Gertrude?” E lias gives her a long, heavy stare. 

Sasha resists the urge to gulp and, weirdly enough, finds herself holding his gaze. 

He smiles. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors regarding Ms. Robinson’s disappearance, Sasha. While the gossip may be…. _ embellished _ , I am afraid to admit that I cannot offer any more information on her whereabouts. The Institute and I have been working closely with the police to investigate the circumstances surrounding her case. Until she returns or contacts us about a resignation, I do plan to institute you at her post.” 

Sasha searches for a professional way to say _ I’d literally rather die than work in the scariest department of this place next to Artefact Storage.  _ “I’m thrilled that I was considered for this promotion, truly,” she starts. “I just worry that I don’t have the proper, er,  _ credentials _ , for this position. I don’t have a library science degree, unfortunately…”

“Not a problem. I will allow you to select Archival Assistants to ease your adjustment and to help shoulder the burden of statement follow-ups. Three is both traditional and recommended by the Archivists of the past.”

Michael comes to mind, for herself. She almost suggests him, and then looks up. 

_ Michael is not coming back. _ It is in Elias’s eyes, boring into hers.  Daring her to turn him down. 

“You  _ are _ qualified.”

His smile is full of tombstone teeth. She is chilled to the bone. 

**** 

Soon the archives are Sasha’s. She lives within their crotechy corners and web-laden bookshelves. Now she has the honor of owning the darkness that radiates from spilled statement ink. The press of the watching and the trepidation of the watched.

She is not a brooding academic, no. But there is something about this place that seems to demand that of her, that leeches her spirit. Suddenly she is forgetting to laugh and records horrifying statements with a voice that could land her a job in the entertainment industry.

There is a peculiar, new swirl in the bottom of her lavender coffee cup, and she can’t seem to deduce what it means. Lines spiral around its handle that may be new or may be Sasha losing her mind. 

When the tape recorders start appearing, it’s all too familiar. 

The moving of her mug wasn’t due to her own forgetfulness or the work of a flirty researcher. It’s  _ something _ . Not someone. 

  
Not a  _ who _ \-- a  _ what _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this timeline doesn't line up with canon (i hear y'all being like MICHAEL AND SASHA WEREN'T AT THE INSTITUTE AT THE SAME TIME) and first of all: I hate timelines. But there's actually a reason for Michael's timelines being different in Jon's verse and Sasha's verse that goes beyond the fact that Sasha's verse is an AU. So bear with me.
> 
> hooo boy that ep was something, wasn't it? im so thrilled to get this chapter up tbh, the dopamine that floods my body is absolutely UNMATCHED after completing a task

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr @astridianmayfly ! Come say hello!


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